“Among other things. Eight years ago, I discovered quite by accident that certain foods produced adverse effects. And other foods, if ingested daily, could cure certain maladies.”
“And you’ve investigated this further?”
Turk smiled slightly. “Yes. A member of my family had grown quite ill, and I chanced upon a book, Macrobiotics, or The Art to Prolong One’s Life, by a man named Hufeland. His studies concluded what I had already learned through studying the Chinese philosophies. It’s quite fascinating.”
Angela smiled. “And Hufeland’s book taught you to use ginger to cure Emily’s seasickness.”
“Indirectly. Though Chinese practitioners discovered its use as a healing spice over two thousand years ago, it is a versatile little root. Tibetans use it to help convalescents recuperate from illness, and in Japan, a ginger-oil massage is considered quite beneficial in alleviating spinal and joint problems. It is even,” he continued as he replaced Emily’s empty cup on the tray he’d brought, “useful for the treatment of mild burns. Said to bring almost instantaneous relief.”
“Must Emily drink it often?”
“As often as the symptoms occur, I should think.” Turk stood with his massive legs braced apart. Angela studied him with open candor as he fussed with the tray and pots.
Clad in a loose white shirt and trousers and a pair of leather sandals, he should have looked unrefined. The opposite was true, however. Perhaps it was his instinctive dignity, or his regal bearing. He was completely bald, and wore a huge gold hoop in his left earlobe. Small bluish lines were tattooed on each of his cheeks. His nose was large and flat, and his mouth was well chiseled and of surprising delicacy for the rest of his features. It would have been easy to envision him clad in the raiment of a king of his native country.
“Captain Saber said that you were not Moorish,” she remarked.
Turk smiled. “As customary, he speaks the truth.”
Ignoring Emily’s appalled gaze at her temerity, Angela pressed, “But if you are not Moorish, what is your nationality?”
“Are you truly interested, madam, or just satisfying a rather morbid curiosity?”
Turk was looking at her now, his dark eyes somber and riveting. She quelled the impulse to mumble that it didn’t matter, and steadied her voice.
“I am truly interested. I have never seen a blackamoor this closely.”
“Ah. You are mistaken. I am not, as I have noted, a Moor. Therefore, blackamoor is blatantly erroneous terminology.”
Angela gazed at him for a moment. A faint smile of admiration curved her mouth. “Marvelous. Do you speak so fluently in your native country?”
“In my own language, which is much more lyrical and flowing than English.”
“What is your language and your country?”
“I was born in the Sudan, into the Monyjang, which is also referred to as the Dinka tribe.” A faint smile curved his mouth. “Men in my tribe were also called ‘ghostly giants’ by some Europeans, referring, of course, to our height and predilection for coating our bodies with ash. Quite an effective sight, I assure you.”
“The Sudan is in Africa, is that correct?” Angela asked, and Turk nodded.
“It is, indeed. Just below Egypt. An ancient and beautiful land, inhabited by man and beast since time first began.” Turk paused, then added softly, “Though not always equitably, I’m afraid. Man is by far the most dangerous predator in any land, I’ve discovered.”
Emily made a faint sound, and Angela looked at her. The color was coming back to her cheeks, though she still looked a bit wobbly.
“I think I want to lie down,” Emily said faintly, and Angela went to her immediately.
“Where can she lie down, sir?”
Turk moved forward, and swept Emily into his huge arms. She made another soft sound that closely resembled the frightened squeak of a rabbit as he carried her across the cabin to a recess. Angela saw it was a bed of sorts, built into the wall and set on gimbaled casters to stay level against the sway of the ship.
“This would be best for her,” Turk said smoothly, and placed Emily onto the embroidered cotton quilt. She sank into the mattress with a sigh of contentment, fear temporarily replaced by the delight of a thick feather mattress beneath her.
“O-oh, it’s so comfortable,” Emily murmured, and rested her dark head into the billowing softness of a pillow.
Angela followed Turk back to the table, watching while he retrieved the tray and the remains of their light repast. Dried fruit and pieces of hard, flat biscuit had been enough to take the edge off her appetite, though Emily had not been able to eat much. The wooden tray rattled with a faint clink of fine china cups as Turk lifted it and looked down at her.
“We shall recommence our discourse at another, more convenient time, miss. Now, it would be best if you were to seek a respite from the day’s vigorous activities. If you are truly interested, I shall tell you of the beauties of my native land another time.”
“I would be quite interested in hearing of your home,” Angela said, suddenly realizing how tired she was. A wave of weariness made her sway. She barely managed a smile when he asked if she would care for some chamomile tea to help her sleep.
“I think that I shall fall asleep the moment my head touches the pillow,” she assured him. He nodded his agreement and left, shutting the door softly behind him.
But despite her assurances, Angela lay awake for a long time after turning down the lanterns and undressing. Clad in her sleeveless chemise, she crawled into the bunk beside Emily and nudged her gently.
“Are you still awake, Emily?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Shall I help you undress?”
“No. I’m too tired. And I can’t imagine that a wrinkled gown could make matters worse than they are now.”
Angela smiled at the dismal tone. “It could be worse, you know.”
“Oh? How?”
“Use your imagination.”
That reply brought several moments of thick silence. Then Emily sighed. “You’re right, of course. I allowed my personal misery to overcome common sense. Shall we say a prayer of gratitude that we are still alive?”
Angela hesitated. She felt lately as if she had erred too gravely to be on good terms with Divine Grace, but surely, in these dire circumstances, He would forgive her past indiscretions.
“Yes, let’s do, Emily.”
After a short prayer of thanks, freely mixed with pleas for continued clemency, they grew silent for a time.
“Emily?” Angela whispered finally. “You’ve read all the articles about him. Do you suppose that this Captain Saber will truly let us go unharmed?”
“It’s hard to say.” Emily drew in a long, shuddering breath. “If one believes all the reports about him, we should have already been killed or ravished. Or both. But don’t you think it odd, Miss Angela, that he talks like a proper Englishman? I mean, his speech is not at all coarse, though he does look rather wicked.” She paused, then added softly, “Handsomely wicked, I should say.”
She’d had the same thought, but Angela was not ready to release her doubts. “Lucifer is said to be quite beautiful, you know. Besides, Saber may be handsome in a rough manner, but he is definitely not a proper gentleman.”
“No, he could never be that.” Emily paused. “Though I do think him rather dashing, in a frightening sort of way.”
“Dashing!”
Emily stirred uncomfortably. “Well, you know. Exciting. Bold. That sort of thing.”
“Emily, your imagination will get you in trouble one day.”
“Perhaps,” Emily returned tartly, “but not in as much trouble as your determination has already gotten me.”
There was not much to be said to that, and Angela rolled to her side. Honesty compelled her to agree, but she was too ashamed to admit it aloud. She remained miserably silent, and soon heard Emily’s soft snores.
Listening to Emily’s rhythmic breathing, Angela felt a spurt of
gratitude for her maid’s presence. What would she have done if she’d had to brave this ordeal alone?
She shut her eyes, squeezing them tightly to block out the sight of the unfamiliar cabin with its elegant furnishings that belonged to a pirate. The furnishings were no doubt stolen from some poor honest merchantman, loot ripped away from the less fortunate and more honorable. How could Captain Saber sleep comfortably in a cabin filled with stolen goods?
But then, how could he sleep comfortably knowing he was responsible for terror and death . . .
It was not, Angela thought wearily, the sort of situation she’d ever dreamed she would endure. If only she had already been with Philippe, and none of this had happened. Surely he would keep her safe and secure, banish all the terrors that threatened.
Philippe . . .
A sob caught in her throat, and she turned over to bury her face in the cool cotton of the pillow casing. She could not break down. Not now, when the grim situation called for a cool head. She had to remain calm. Thinking of Philippe was all that kept her steady.
Aristocratic Philippe du Plessis, with his dark, cool eyes and beautiful soul. Did he miss her letters? Their correspondence over the years had somehow evolved into love for one another, slipping between the written words and into their hearts. No man had been able to compare with the prose Philippe had written to her, his soaring philosophies that were so near her own.
It still amazed her that her normally intelligent father would view Philippe as a bounder and fortune hunter. She had done her best to reason with Papa, but to no avail. And now she’d fled her home for a chance at happiness.
Squares of bright, silvery moonlight pressed through the mullioned windows across the stern in distorted patterns; Angela watched as they grew pale with the passage of night. It seemed as if she would never fall asleep.
“Two points to starboard! Man overboard! Raise the roger, boys! No quarter! Stick ’em! Slash ’em! Aawk!”
Gasping, Angela sat bolt upright in the bunk, a hand clutching the sheets to her chest. She stared wildly about her, blinking at the sunlight streaming dustily through the gallery windows. Emily wailed loudly as the raucous cries began again, sounding as if they were in the cabin.
“Bloody hell! Bloody hell! Heave to, mates!”
A flash of scarlet flew past with a loud flapping, and Angela ducked instinctively. Then she snatched up the pillow and flung it in the direction of the screeching voice as it bellowed obscene imprecations she’d never heard before.
Emily screamed, and screamed again as something brushed her cheek. The red, darting arrow swooped away with a flapping sound and Angela blinked, realizing what it must be. She grabbed Emily’s arm before the girl descended into complete hysterics.
“Hush, goose. It’s only a bird.”
Emily buried her face in her palms, words muffled and disbelieving. “Truly? But what kind of bird?”
“I don’t know. A parrot, probably.”
A flash of scarlet swept past again, and this time she saw it clearly. She glanced at Emily. A red feather fluttered in her mop of curls. She pulled it loose and nudged her.
“See the feather? Only a parrot.”
Emily peeped through her spread fingers and gave a sigh of relief when she saw the feather. “Oh. I see.”
Angela slid from the bed and balanced precariously on the shifting floor of the cabin. The strap to her chemise sagged from one shoulder, and the hem brushed against her thighs. She reached for the gown she’d draped over a chair.
As she was slipping it over her head, the bird flew past again, this time landing on the back of a chair to peer at her with bright, beady eyes. Angela stared back at it.
“You’re a nasty bird,” she said calmly as she fastened the row of buttons at the side of her day dress.
The bird shifted from one clawed foot to the other, tilting his head in the other direction. “Pretty Rollo,” he said brightly. “Rollo is a good bird. Have some rum.”
Angela couldn’t help a laugh. Though she didn’t quite dare attempt stroking him, she had to admit he was a pretty bird, with bright green feathers on his head and wings.
“Rollo is a vile creature,” she said firmly. “I can only imagine where you heard some of those dreadful things you said.”
Emily crept cautiously from the bunk, smoothing her hair back from her forehead as she gazed in fascination at the bird. “He’s rather clever, don’t you think, Miss Angela?”
“Obnoxious is a more suitable term, I would say.”
Rollo took wing, a scarlet flash in the cabin. “Awwk! Rollo is a good bird.”
Emily laughed. “He disagrees with you.”
“No doubt. But he must get his opinion from the captain, remember, and we both know his character.”
Emily frowned slightly as she moved haltingly across the floor to the gallery windows. Stuffed cushions in rich brocades of various patterns lined a wide bench beneath the windows. She knelt on the bench and peered out at the sea, which seemed to stretch endlessly.
“Actually, Miss Angela,” she murmured as she rested her chin in her palm, “I think Captain Saber has behaved much more nicely than Captain Turnower ever did. At least he did not leave us to go down with a burning ship.”
Angela slipped on her shoes and looked up at Emily. “No, but that does not mean we should trust him. He has a reason for keeping us alive. We should wait to discover it before giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
“True.” Emily turned as the bird landed on the arm of a lamp in a noisy flutter. She stared at it. Rollo stared back, eyes unblinking and intent, head cocked to one side. “How did it get in here, do you think?” she mused.
Angela pushed the hair from her eyes, frowning. “I did not even think of that . . .”
“I let him in.”
Both turned at the male voice, and saw the cabin door opening wider to admit Captain Saber. Seen in daylight, without smoke and dusky shadows diffusing details, Angela realized that this man was an entirely different person from the one she had first met. There was a harder look to him that did not diminish his brand of extreme good looks; indeed, if anything, it only added to them. But the charity she had thought she’d glimpsed simply did not exist. The crescent-shaped scar curving from his left eyebrow to the high, stark cut of his cheekbone gave him a more dangerous look, and thick-lashed blue eyes regarded her coldly.
Angela sternly slowed her rapidly galloping pulse into order and flushed, wondering how long he’d been there, and what he’d seen and heard. She turned, and shooed the bird from the lamp arm. Rollo immediately took wing and, with a rather disgruntled squawk, flapped out the open door.
Saber’s amused, sardonic gaze flicked over Angela. “I see you’ve met Rollo. I hope he’s not worse for the encounter.”
“He needs his mouth washed out with soap. I take it you are the one who taught him such colorful phrases?” she returned coolly.
“Of course. Most of them I taught him when I was ten. The others he’s picked up here and there.”
Angela opened her mouth, but thought better of it, and lapsed into grim silence. As if he enjoyed her reaction, Saber lifted a mocking brow. Then he moved across the cabin floor with a graceful ease that spoke of long familiarity with the motion of a ship.
The ship rose gracefully on a wave, then plunged steeply. Angela stepped cautiously to the security of a chair, hoping that she would not stumble clumsily while he was there. She sat down and folded her hands primly in her lap.
Saber did not seem to notice. He bent over his desk and rearranged some odd-looking metal instruments that Angela recognized. A sextant, one of them was called. Her cousin had received a small set of them as a child, but had never allowed her to touch them. “Ship’s navigational tools,” he’d called them. “Not for girls.”
Angela’s eyes narrowed as Saber unrolled a large square of parchment with a crisp crackle, holding one end of it with his hand to keep it from rolling back on itself. It looked as if it were
a map, and she couldn’t control her curiosity.
“Where are we, Captain Saber?”
He glanced up at her. “I presume you mean to ask our location in the Atlantic, and how near to shore we are.”
“Of course.”
“Not near enough to a port amenable to the Sea Tiger. I fear your stay with us will be a bit longer than anticipated.”
Her heart lurched. “Does that mean you do intend to set us ashore eventually?”
He frowned. “Of course. Surely, you don’t think I want you aboard the Sea Tiger any longer than need be.”
Rather startled by this disclosure, Angela could not form an appropriate reply. It was Emily who blurted out their fears.
“But Captain Saber, do you intend to sell us? Or take us to some distant port as slaves?”
“Sell you?” He looked from Angela to Emily and back. A derisive smile curled the hard lines of his mouth. “I fear that I would get very little profit for either of you. Giddy girls bring little nowadays in a competitive market. Unless you have skills that I am unaware of, perhaps? No? Then I shall just count myself fortunate to be rid of you before you cost me too much for your care.”
“How noble.” Angela rose from her chair, stung by his contemptuous comments. “If we were more valuable or talented in certain respects, then I am certain your charity would undergo rapid revisions.”
His smile broadened. “Naturally. However, we don’t have to worry about that. You are neither valuable nor talented, merely inconvenient.”
“That is not at all true!” Emily rose indignantly from the cushions beneath the portholes to glare at Saber. “Why, Miss Angela is from a very good family, and her papa owns banks and businesses that are worth a great deal of—”
“Emily!”
Horrified, Emily clapped a hand over her mouth, while Angela stared at her with a mixture of irritation and dismay. Then she turned to look at Captain Saber. His expression was cold and intent.
Capture The Wind Page 7